


Half-Century Gal

by sarahbeniel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Birthday, Established Relationship, F/M, Feels, Happy Ending, Marvel Summer Fun and Fluff Fest Fail, WinterShock - Freeform, aging together, health scare, middle-aged characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: Bucky makes it back home in time for Darcy's fiftieth birthday, which she has no plans to celebrate.





	Half-Century Gal

**Author's Note:**

> This was another attempt to write something for the Marvel Summer Fun and Fluff Fest, but, as with my first attempt (my Natasha oneshot) it turned out to be neither fun nor fluffy, so I'm not posting it to the collection.
> 
> Apparently, when I sit down and say, "Let's write something 'feel good'," the Muse hears, " **LET'S WRITE SOME** ~~thing~~ **FEEL _S_** ~~good~~."
> 
> The "three things" MSFaFF prompt that led to this work:
> 
> \- reading nook -  
> \- watermelon -  
> \- pickup truck -
> 
> The Llano Estacado (YA-noh eh-stah-CAH-doh), or "Staked Plains", mentioned in the first paragraph, is a desolate region in NW Texas stretching into eastern New Mexico. It's a flat, scrubby desert plain, with not a lot around for miles and miles and miles. It's not a place you want to run out of gas. But don't worry; nothing bad's gonna happen there. I just wanted to explain what it is, for people outside the U.S. (or from the U.S., who have never heard of it.)
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  
>  
> 
>  

 

 

Bucky was a bit tired, but he made good time hiking the last half-mile from the drop point off I-40, right on the edge of the Llano Estacado, to where he’d left his truck three weeks ago, and when he reached it, he took an extra few minutes to swap out his prosthetic arm, far away from prying eyes. 

Once he got the cosmetic arm socketed in, he opened the lockbox in the truck bed, put the duffel with his gear and the combat arm inside, and locked it back up. The sun was still high in the sky, and it was hot as hell out, but he could see storm clouds far in the distance— maybe three or four hours away. It’d been pretty dry for the past couple months, and he knew they could use the rain, but he was hoping to beat it home, and he still had a couple of stops to make. 

He unfolded the tonneau cover to seal up the bed, just in case, and then hopped in, started up the truck, and made his way to the state highway, and from there, back up to I-40. 

The truck— a dusty blue 1960s Ford F100— was a beater. It felt and sounded like a tank, if a tank also squeaked and rattled and bounced, and was older than either one of them, if you went by Bucky’s revised calendar, which subtracted out all the years lost to him in cryo, and which now put him at an estimated fifty-six years of age: approaching early retirement, if he’d been a normal man. 

The serum had made him anything but normal, and though there’d been some outward changes— deepening lines on his face, and a gradual greying of his hair— he felt, like Steve, just as physically vital and capable as he had at thirty-six, and though he’d been taking fewer assignments in recent years, it’d been more for personal reasons than physical ones. He didn’t need the money anymore, and now that he and Darcy had finally found a place that felt like home, that was where he most wanted to be. 

They’d found the truck abandoned under the collapsed barn on the far side of the property, and after they’d unburied it, put in a new battery, changed the oil and filled it up with gas, it’d run just fine. He liked to say it was old and scruffy— just like him— and Darcy loved it, like she did all things vintage. 

_“Includin’ me?” he’d asked._

_“Especially you,” she’d said, pulling on his belt buckle, to bring him closer._

_“I always thought ‘vintage’ was a polite way of sayin’ 'old',” he’d said._

_“You’re not old,” she’d replied. “More like, full-grown. Ripe.” And then she’d giggled, just as sweet and cute about it in middle-age as she’d been in her twenties. “Ready to pick.”_

_“Thought you already picked me.”_

_“That I did,” she’d said, and had gone up on her tippy-toes to kiss him. “That I did.”_

It took him a couple hours to get back to town, and he was still ahead of the rain, but he could feel it getting closer— the breeze picking up, the sky getting darker, and he made fast work of buying the few things he needed at the grocery store, though he wasted too much time in the greeting-card aisle, frowning at the crappy selection for people turning fifty. The cards were all stupid— treating the milestone like some kind of joke, or something to apologize for. 

There was one he’d have gotten her before— the dark humor just her style: _“If you were a dog, you’d be dead by now.”_

But it wasn’t funny now— not in the wake of the scare they’d had, going back to the end of springtime, when she’d found the lump in her left breast. It’d turned out to be benign— a fibroadenoma— but the five-day wait in between her lumpectomy surgery and the phone call from her doctor had been the worst five days of his life, and that included his memories of having the stump of his left arm sawn off by the Hydra butchers. And though the news had been overwhelmingly good, there’d been the caveat that the type of tissue they’d discovered, while benign, did slightly increase her cancer risk moving forward. 

He’d held onto her a little more tightly after that, even as she’d pulled away inside, some kind of shadow falling over her that as of yet hadn’t lifted, and which he recognized, from his own experience, as a sort of delayed fear response… a processing of what could have been… what _still_ could be, some day— even if it was no longer the immediate, the certainty, the _now_. 

They never really talked about any of it in depth— she’d preferred to play it off as no big deal, and he’d let her, because she’d needed it— but he could also see just how shaken she’d been, and that she wasn’t done with it yet. 

When Steve had called him for the assignment, she’d encouraged him to take it, and he hadn’t argued, even though there’d been a chance of his missing her birthday, at the end of summer. She’d insisted that she didn’t want to celebrate it this year anyway— that it was bad enough turning fifty, without also having the whole ‘ _thank God you’re not dying— yet_ ,’ thing layered over it. She just wanted to let it go by this time, and then pick it up the following year when she was in a better place, mentally. 

“Fifty-one sounds better than fifty, anyway,” she’d said. “Go do your thing. It’ll be good for you. Get out of the house.” 

So he’d gone, and she’d been right— it _had_ been good— and he hoped it’d been good for her, too, to have that time alone without his fussing around, but now he couldn’t wait to get home… to get back to her. 

He was already going there, in his mind— holding her in his arms in their comfortable bed, while the summer storm beat down on the roof above— and he knew it probably wouldn’t turn out that way, but he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining it— to feel the longing for it— that sense of security he never really had after a mission, not until he was with her again, feeling the warmth of her skin against his— corporeal, solid… surrounded by her scent… the comfort of her touch, the sound of her voice, grounding him… 

He put the card back— he’d just been standing there, unseeing, for who knows how long— and gave up on finding anything even remotely right, and just took one of the little blank note cards from the florist department instead. He decided on a bouquet of red and orange roses, a scattering of hot-pink gerbera daisies mixed in, the florist smiling at him as she handed it over in the crinkly, protective sleeve. The combination of colors was electric, vibrant— bursting with energy. Just like her, at least up until this scare had knocked her down in a way he’d never quite seen before. 

He got the rest of what he needed at the store, did the speedy, automated space-age full-scan checkout, paid with a one-second scan of his card, and rolled the rattling cart out to the truck. It was funny how the technology for buying stuff kept advancing, but the grocery carts were the same old crappy shit they’d always been. He took the extra thirty seconds to be a good citizen, rolling the clattering, noisy cart all the way back to the store entrance. 

He kept the groceries and the flowers up front with him, in the cab, and he took a minute to grab a ballpoint pen out of the glove box, and, using the dash as a writing desk, he penned out a short note for her on the little white card. He stuck it in the tiny envelope and attached it to the pronged card-holder the florist had given him, and slid it back into the plastic-and-tissue-paper wrapper around the flowers. 

One more stop to make— and then home. The clouds were getting closer, and they were still hanging onto their load, but it was gonna be close. He drove the three short blocks to the bakery, and pulled into the angle parking right in front of the shop. 

The little bell on the glass door jingled as he pushed his way in, and the thirty-something white guy standing behind the counter greeted him cheerfully. 

“Hey, Jim. Good to see you.” 

“Drew,” he said, nodding in answer. “You got my order ready?” 

“Yup,” said other man, and he turned his head to call out to someone back in the working area of the bakery. “Hey Ryan! Bring out the order for Lewis, would ya?” He turned back to Bucky and said, “Was real glad when you called it in, you know. Haven’t seen you guys in a while. Was worried you’d gone on some kinda goofball diet or somethin’.” 

“Nah,” said Bucky. “Just busy, is all.” They were still waiting, and he added, “Gonna need some candles, I guess.” 

“You gonna put fifty candles on there?” 

“Heck, no,” said Bucky. “She’d kill me if I mangled one o’ your creations like that.” He paused, considering. “Maybe five— one for each decade the Universe’s been smart ‘nuff to keep her in it.” 

“Sounds about right,” said Drew. “You want gold? Silver?” 

“Gimme the rainbow ones, if you got ‘em.” 

“Sure thing,” said Drew, and he handed over a little box of rainbow-colored birthday candles, just as a young man appeared from the back, bearing a square, cardboard cake box. 

“Just put it down there,” said Drew, and the kid obeyed, setting the box carefully down on the counter. 

Bucky could feel the kid staring at him, and he did his best not to reciprocally analyze him too much, while he paid for his order. The kid was young— no more than eighteen— and looked to be full-blooded Navajo… maybe his first job off the res. He had a shaved-side pixie haircut with tousled, turquoise-dyed bangs, and had what looked like chocolate and flour all over his canvas apron. 

“You’re all set,” said Drew, and Bucky nodded in thanks, picking up the cake box carefully after pocketing the tiny box of birthday candles. The little bell on the door jingled again as he exited the shop. 

“Who was that?” asked the kid, making a dramatic show of fanning himself. 

“Jim Lewis. He ’n his wife live out on the edge of town. Mostly keep to themselves. Good customers. Nice folks.” 

“Damn; he’s married?” 

Drew had to laugh at the kid’s enthusiasm, even if he understood it. “He’s too old for you, kid, even if he weren’t straight.” 

Ryan made a scoffing noise. “That’s ageist. That silver fox could stuff my stocking any day.” 

Drew laughed again and shook his head. “Go finish your ganache.” 

 

* * *

 

The rain was still holding off when he got home, but the breeze was picking up, and he could hear the first rolls of thunder in the distance. The wind chimes hanging from the porch were tinkling, and he could feel his heart picking up a little, the anticipation of seeing her again building to a peak… 

The front door to the house was open, just the screen door keeping the bugs and other critters out, and he’d barely rattled it open when he was assaulted by sixty pounds of very excited golden retriever, and he sheltered the cake box and flowers in his arms as he laughed and let the door bang shut behind him. 

“Hey, girl,” he said softly as the dog tried to jump up on him, front paws pedaling against him, ass wagging back and forth frantically. “Hang on, hang on… I missed you too…” 

He made it into the kitchen and put the stuff on the counter and then crouched to properly greet the impatient, hyperactive dog, barely out of puppyhood, and he was rubbing and patting her all over as she licked his face aggressively, making him laugh. 

“Where’s Mama? Huh?” He pushed up to standing again and walked through the house, looking for his wife, the wood floors creaking beneath his boots, while the dog bounded alongside, racing back and forth, still jumping up on him in excitement. 

He found her lying down, stretched out on her back, propped up by pillows, in the reading nook. It was a favorite spot for both of them, with its cushioned bench wide enough for two, if they didn’t mind cuddling, set against three tall windows looking out on the prettiest view of the yard: Darcy’s rock garden and her plantings of cacti and desert wildflowers. The other walls of the cozy room were lined with wooden bookshelves, stained a deep golden-brown, and filled with a shared collection amassed over the nearly twenty-five years they’d been together. Two overstuffed reading chairs with side tables were the only other furniture in the room. 

He could see, without even approaching, that she was sound asleep— not even the slamming of the screen door, nor the paroxysms of doggie excitement had roused her. Her reading glasses were still on her face, and an open book lay pressed against her chest, rising and falling with her long, regular breaths. Her long, thick hair, now combed through with as much grey as brown, was loose, draped in gentle waves across the pillows and down her shoulders.

He just stared at her for a moment, and wondered, as he often did, if she had any idea how much she truly took his breath away. 

A jet-black cat with yellow eyes lay sleeping at her feet, and it lifted its head and yawned, blinking at him, as though his thoughts had broken the silence of the room, waking it up. Phoebe, the dog, was still scampering like a maniac around his legs, and he leaned down to grab onto her collar. 

“Shhhhh,” he said, as he quietly backed out the room, taking the dog with him. “Let’s go get the rest of the stuff.” 

He brought in the rest of the groceries— two paper bags and a nice big watermelon— and got his duffel bag out of the truck bed, taking the time to secure the tonneau cover again, even though he’d parked under the shelter of the carport. When he got back into the kitchen, the black cat was there, on the counter, waiting. 

“You hungry Abby?” he asked, and gave the cat a fond little cheek scratch, which she leaned into politely, though her intentions were quite clear, making him chuckle. 

He went into the cupboard and got out a can of cat food, which caused the cat to jump down and pace anxiously next to her dish, the end of her tail curled up like a candy cane, as she meowed at him impatiently. “All right, all right,” he said, having to nudge her head aside to get it all on the plate. He filled up the dog’s dish too, while he was at it, and changed her water, and pretty soon Phoebe was over there, slurping away noisily. 

He dealt with the flowers next, cutting a bit off the ends and putting them in water, and then he washed his hands and set about making something for Darcy to eat. 

She’d known he was going to make it home in time for dinner, but when he’d called to let her know, she’d told him not to do anything special for her birthday. He’d agreed, up to a point— but he was going to make one of her favorite summer treats, at the very least. 

He cut the watermelon in half, wrapping up part of it for later, and then cubed the rest of it, putting it in a large bowl. He sprinkled it with crumbles of feta cheese, and chopped up some fresh mint. A squeeze of lime and a couple dashes of olive oil went on top, and then he tossed it together gently and spooned some of it into a shallow dish. 

He corked the bottle of Moscato— the pink, bubbly drink a guilty pleasure of hers, especially on a hot day— and poured a generous serving into a white-wine glass. 

“Okay,” he said to himself, and, realizing he was going to have to make two trips, took the flowers in first. He walked quietly back into the library, moved one of the side tables over to the nook and set the vase of flowers on it, leaving room for her snack. He went back for the watermelon salad and the Moscato, and he was just setting down the wine glass when Darcy suddenly sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. 

“Hey,” she said sleepily, her eyes moving between him and the stuff on the table. “When’d you get in?” 

“Not too long ago,” he said. “Half-hour, maybe.” 

“You feed Pheebs?” 

“Yup,” he said. “Abby, too.” 

“Shit, what time is it?” She was trying to sit up a little, but he could see that she was still groggy from her nap, a little disoriented. 

“Almost five,” he said, and he was smiling, just from the sound of her voice, the movements of her face, sleepy as it was. He wanted to kiss her, but for the first time in a very long time, he almost felt like he didn’t have permission. Like he should wait for an invitation. 

“What’cha readin’?” he said instead, and he took a seat, down by her feet, while she pulled herself up a bit more and closed the book. 

“Oldie but goodie,” she said, handing it over to him. 

He chuckled a little as he looked at the cover: The Once and Future King. It was a favorite of both of theirs— thoughtful and heady and romantic, but also devastatingly sad. He wondered at the choice of it. 

“Must be, what— your sixth, seventh time?” he said. 

“Yeah, but you know how it just gets better every time,” she said, picking up the wine glass. “Mmm,” she said after taking a sip. “Yummy.” 

He’d forgotten to put a fork in her salad dish, but she didn’t seem to care, just picking up cubes of the dressed watermelon with her fingers. “Fuck, you went all out,” she said, around a mouthful of food. 

“S’nothin’,” he said, meaning it. “Watermelon looked good at the store, so I figured…” 

He was watching her eat it, watching her lips as she took another sip of the sparkling wine, and he wanted to pull her into his lap, kiss her senseless… 

“Maybe it’s getting better because I’m gettin’ old,” she said, and it took him a few seconds to realize she was talking about the book. “You know, getting wiser, hotter, stronger… just generally more impressive with each passing hour…” 

“You say that like it’s a joke,” he said, grinning, “but it’s all true…” 

She smiled finally—a real one, her eyes softening as she looked at him— and set the wine glass down. “C’mere, you…” 

He slid over next to her, and she crawled into his lap, settling her big, curvy ass into the cradle of his thighs. She was threading her fingers into the short, soft waves of grey hair above his ears, and his heart skipped a beat as she leaned in to brush his lips, soft and sweet, and the kiss, though fairly tame, shared everything they hadn’t said out loud: _I missed you… I still love you…_

He wanted to sink into it, but too soon she broke it off— like she’d just been testing the waters— and he licked his lips, tasting the wine that’d flavored her mouth, as her hand went to the scabbed-but-healing gash above his eyebrow. She lifted her butt up a little as she craned to reach it with her lips, and he closed his eyes to feel it fully as she kissed him there. 

“You got any other boo-boos need kissing?” 

“Just the one in my heart,” he said, as he picked up her hand. “From missin’ you so bad.” 

It was a cheesy line, but he meant every word of it, and he could tell that she knew it, but her next words surprised him. 

“We’ll see about fixing that later,” she said, with a sassy little eyebrow waggle. 

It’d been a while since he’d heard it— that sexy, teasing tone of hers— and he’d missed it so much— even more than he’d realized, now that he was hearing it again— even as he knew it might not go any further than that. 

They hadn’t made love since before her biopsy— he’d lost track of the weeks, but it was definitely the longest they’d ever gone, without actually being separated from one another. She’d cuddled with him plenty, allowed him to spoon her and soothe her and hold her while she slept, but she hadn’t seemed to want any intimacy beyond that. 

Now, taking in her frisky little overture, he realized it wasn’t so much the physical part of the sex he’d missed, as much as all the different colors she brought to it—the sass of the silly flirting, the lust that often took over as they headed into it, the shameless joy she took in her own pleasure— and in pleasuring him— and sometimes, just the quiet closeness of it… of simply being together. He missed it. He missed her noises, her rhythms, the way the air changed around him when she was close. 

He smiled softly at her now and lifted up her hand to kiss it, acknowledging her words, feeling like they were trying something on— like a favorite outfit that’d been set aside for a season, waiting to be pulled out again, when the weather was right… at once deeply familiar, yet in need of an airing out, a time of reacquaintance… 

If he had to guess, he’d say she almost didn’t seem to feel at home in her own body. It was a feeling he knew deeply himself, so it wasn’t that hard to recognize. And it wasn’t even about the external differences, like the three-inch scar she now bore above her left nipple, an inward-pulling dent of a line that marred what was once a veritable perfection of creamy, soft flesh. 

She would think it silly to be vain about something like that, considering the state of Bucky’s body and all of _his_ scars, which had never bothered her in the slightest. Her discomfort, he knew, was more internal… as if her body— this vessel she’d always loved, even as it had changed with age— had suddenly become the enemy. A defective, failing thing, waiting to betray her, to take her away from him against her will. 

He’d missed being close to her— missed it terribly— and it’d been painful to feel her pull away electively, as she’d withdrawn into herself. But just as she’d always given him the gift of patience and space— especially at first, when she didn’t fully understand it— he intended to give her _whatever_ she needed, even if it hurt… even when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and take care of her, convince her— and himself— that if he held on tightly enough, she would never disappear… 

She’d slid out of his lap as he’d lost himself to his thoughts, and was picking at the watermelon again, in between sips of her drink. 

“How’s Steve?” she asked, falling back into the safety of the mundane. 

“He, uh… well, he met someone.” He said it as neutrally as possible, but couldn’t help breaking into a grin as Darcy practically slammed down her glass, and he knew she was almost angry that he hadn’t mentioned it immediately, and he almost started laughing when the questions came in rapid-fire… 

“ _What?!?_ Are you kidding? Who is he? What the fuck, boo; why didn’t you— well, come on; tell me all the details! Did you meet him? Is it serious?” 

“Looks like,” he said, and he reached over to steal a piece of watermelon. “I’ll tell you all about it while we’re makin’ dinner. Uh… speakin’ of… I know you said no presents or nothin’, but…” 

“Uh oh,” she said, but she was smiling. “What’d you do? I told you, nothing special…” 

“Well… I may have gotten you a cake…” 

He could see her investigating his face, checking out the deliberately coy arrangement of his features, and then she breathed in sharply, and actually clasped her hands together, and it was everything he’d hoped for and more, that reaction… 

“Oh my God,” she said. “Did you go to Cake-à-Mamie?” 

“Course,” he said then. “Wouldn’t get you no crappy grocery-store cake for your birthday. It’s waitin’ for you in the kitchen.” He stole another piece of watermelon, rolling around the flavors in his mouth, watching her face, relieved to know that his instincts had been correct. 

“Fuck,” she breathed. “I haven’t had Cake-à-Mamie since…” 

_Since before the Thing_ , his mind supplied, and he spoke up again, to swerve away from those thoughts. 

“They got a new kid workin’ there. Never seen him before, anywhere ‘round town. But he was givin’ me the eye, big time. So I guess he’s either some kinda spy, or he was checkin’ me out.” 

Darcy huffed a laugh. “If he’s new in town, he’s gonna need time to acclimate to your hotness, just like everyone else. And then go through the mourning period when he realizes you’re all mine, and that I will fight to the death to keep you.” 

It was a familiar story— he’d heard it many times— but it made his heart clench a little anyway, craving that open affection from her. 

“You don’t gotta fight no-one for me, baby doll,” he said, teasing her back. “I’m yours,” he said. “Always have been; always will be.” 

She smiled at his words, especially the ‘ _baby doll_ ’— after all these years, he still used some of those old-timey words and phrases, and he knew that it still melted her, every time. 

“How’d I get so lucky,” she said, sighing, and she looked a little sad as she reached out to feel the scruff on his jaw where his beard was growing in— at three weeks in, it just looked like a grey mess, but she didn’t seem to mind. 

“Keep tellin’ you,” he said. “I’m the lucky one.” He kissed her once— just one soft, quick one, and then pushed up off the cushions and said, “I’m gonna walk Pheebs before it starts rainin’,” and then he grinned down at her and added, “Either that, or I’m gonna wind up lyin’ down here with you, and ain’t nothin’ gonna get me up again if I do that.” 

“Kay,” she said, giving him a small smile. “I’m just gonna sit here and eat more of this yummy stuff.” 

“Back soon,” he said. 

She heard the screen door bang shut a minute later, and she looked at the bouquet he’d brought her— leaned forward to smell the flowers, and finally noticed the little card nestled within. She pulled out the plastic holder, setting it aside as she removed the little white envelope. She opened it up and took out the card, smiling when she saw that he’d written the note himself, his handwriting as familiar to her as her own. 

> _For my half-century gal. You know I’m no good with words, so you’ll just have to let me show you, whatever way I can, how much you mean to me— now, and forever. For the next 50 years, if you’ll have me. Love you, sweet pea._

She read it all the way through, one more time. And then all at once she scrambled up out of the nook, grabbed her sandals off the floor and ran through the house and banged out the front door, calling after him, where he was about fifty feet down the dirt driveway. He was following behind Phoebe, who’d pulled the leash taut when he stopped. She didn’t usually pull, but she was still young, and full of energy— so excited that Bucky was home. 

“Wait!” said Darcy, as he turned around to look. “I’m comin’ with.” She sat down on the step to quickly pull on her sandals, and then pushed up and sort of shuffle-jogged to catch up while he waited. Phoebe was still pulling, trying to tug him onward, and he switched sides so he could reach out with his flesh hand to grab onto Darcy’s as she caught up to them. 

There was a quiet stillness in the air, even as it felt thick— heavy with moisture— the sky dark for five o’clock in the summer, and then a sudden breeze whipped through the trees and lifted up her hair, and she could smell the earthy, pungent petrichor that heralded the imminent rain. 

Darcy breathed it in deeply, and said, “It’s comin’,” and they walked a while in silence, watching Phoebe sniff and mark the scrubby landscaping along the way, and they watched the clouds evolve as they rolled in, the rumbles of the thunder encroaching, the breeze ahead of the front quickly cooling the hot, heavy air, and all of a sudden Darcy stopped short, squeezing his hand to keep him from walking on, and she took in a deep breath, looking at him, and there was a tremble in it. 

He’d stopped as soon as she’d squeezed his hand, turning back to see what was wrong, frowning as he took in her face, wondering why she was nervous, and then she was tugging on his shirt, pulling him into her, and he let her do it, and then she was hugging him fiercely, her hands clenching into his body through his shirt, and there was something else in it, so much more than a hug— like an acknowledgment of everything, all of it released in that one action: how she’d held herself apart from him all that time, and though they’d never spoken aloud of it, she was saying that she knew: knew that it’d been hard for him, and that it’d also been hard for her, but that she hadn’t known what else to do… 

She was trying to come back— trying to tell him— and he sank into it, more relieved than he’d even imagined, and he let go of the leash so he could hug her back with both of his arms, and then he was lifting her up, her legs wrapping around him, her hands moving up to touch his face, her eyes watery as she gazed at him— her best friend, her mate, her love— and it almost felt like they were kids again— she twenty-eight and he thirty-four, or however old they’d been when they’d first met— and it felt at once like forever ago and also no time at all, like they’d blinked and traveled through time: those twenty-odd years they’d been together, and his eyes stung a little as he felt her fully inhabiting her body again, living in it, with all of its flaws and fears and possibilities— even the bad ones— whatever would be, as long as they were in it together… 

It was starting to rain, big plump drops coming down on their backs and their faces, darkening the dirt in splotches around them, and she was kissing him in the wetness, breathing through it along with him, with as much passion and feeling as she’d ever had, and he wanted to take her home, to walk her right back to the house and lay her down so he could make love to her properly, but he didn’t want to break the moment either, wanting to drown in the relief of feeling her emotions again… and now it was really raining, the sudden downpour upon them, soaking through their hair, their clothes… and when she pulled back to look at him wordlessly, her cheeks were wet, whether from rain or tears, he didn’t know, but the look on her face just said, _please_ , like she was asking for his help, like she couldn’t do it herself… 

He shifted her in his arms, hefting her so that one arm was supporting her back while the other scooped under her legs, and he whistled sharply to Phoebe, who came scampering back, bypassing them as he carried Darcy toward the house, Phoebe beating them to the porch, dragging her leash inside as he opened the door, and Darcy would have both laughed and screamed at the mess she was making, shaking her fur in the entryway, and then tracking her dirty paws through the house, still dragging the leash, but she didn’t even care, because they were already headed up the stairs, Bucky still carrying her, the wooden steps creaking beneath his heavy boots… 

Up in their bedroom the rain was hitting the windows and the skylight, a steady but soothing pattering of sound, and they were pulling off their wet clothes like sloughing off old skin… revealing something beneath at once tender and new, but always there, waiting: this feeling, this expression, of the inexplicable magic that colored their love for one another, finding new hues over the years but never fading… 

They got everything off, taking breaks on the way to just kiss and lay hands on each other, fingers smoothing over curves and muscles, lines and freckles, skin getting older but no less beloved, until they were easing down onto the bed, rolling into each other, and it was just like he’d imagined on the drive into town— everything he’d longed for— being safe and warm in her arms, the rain coming down on the roof, a gentle rhythm surrounding their own breathy sighs as they lay side-by-side, looking into each other’s eyes, and it was already enough, just feeling her there, with him, wanting him, and then she moved his flesh hand between her legs, asking him, inviting, letting him know it was okay— that she wanted his touch… 

He went into her in waves, once she was ready, his hand moving from his own body after fitting himself in, up to her thigh, slung over his hip, and he pulled on it a little, bringing her in closer as her own hips rocked into him, helping to draw him in further, and when he was fully seated, filling her inside, he pulled the rest of her flush up against him, her breasts pressing into his chest, holding her to him like a precious thing, and he shut his eyes and exhaled, just needing to feel it, as close to her as he could get, all wrapped up around her, breathing with her… 

She tipped up her face to kiss him, slowly, her palms on his chest, her fingertips curling into him just a little, in that way that was as familiar to him as anything she did to his body, something slightly possessive about it, and he made a little sound into her mouth, unable to hold back how moved he was— some almost unbearable combination of joy and pleasure and relief— and then she pulled her lips away and moved her face to his chest, leaning in to kiss him there, too: once just below his collarbone; again along the edge of his biggest, ugliest scar; and then the third time, right over his heart, so tenderly, just like she’d said she would… tending to the ache there, the pain he’d incurred from missing her— and it was clear she’d understood that it wasn’t just from being away, but also from the days before—when she’d held herself distant from him, frightened… and he tried not to cry, so he just breathed, his eyes still closed. 

“All better?” she whispered, after she’d kissed him, turning her face to rest her cheek against his chest, feeling the thump of his heart, as her arms wrapped around his body, holding him close. 

She squeezed around him inside, too, telling him as much as showing him that she was there, and he could feel her everywhere, warm and beautiful and present— the one person in the world whom he trusted with everything… his partner, his love, his life. 

He hadn’t answered, so she looked up at his face, blinking, and her hand moved to touch him, her thumb wiping away the one tear that’d managed to leak out, and then she rocked against him a little, tightening her leg around his hip, trying to get closer, and brought her mouth back to his as he moved his hand to the curve of her backside, holding her there against him, and everything was slow and quiet, even the rain… 

They were barely even moving— just holding onto one another, limbs tangled together, his body clasped inside of hers, safe and warm, and she’d moved her cheek back to his chest, and she whispered against him. 

“I’m sorry… I—” 

He stopped her before she could go on, shushing her, his hand tracing up and down her spine, and he whispered, “Don’t,” not wanting her to feel bad about anything, not wanting her to feel responsible for his hurt, and he just said, “Sweetheart…” and that was enough— no need to say more, as he pulsed against her a little, his hand smoothing back down the curves of her body, holding her there, keeping her close... 

He closed his eyes again, dipped his head down to run his lips against the crown of her head, savoring everything about the connection, and he felt humbled, and he remembered what he’d said at the shop— about the Universe being smart enough to keep her around— and then he finally started to move, rolling her onto her back, wanting to show her all of that, like an offering, and he opened his eyes, watched her face when she looked up at him, felt her body responding to him as he spoke to her with the roll of his hips and the soft touch of his lips, and he could tell she was already as close as he was, having built it all the way up just in those few moments of being pressed together… 

“Who knew,” she breathed, and then she paused, shutting her eyes as she clenched around him, and he made a little noise along with her as she gripped him more tightly in her release, smiling… and then she exhaled and finished her thought: “that fifty could feel so _fucking_ good…” 

“You’re forgettin’ I already been there,” he said, and he pushed into her four more times, each one more intense, his hand flexing into the bedding with each ragged exhale, and then he shuddered as he spilled inside, holding there, unmoving, flush against her… 

“Think I been lyin’ the past six years?” he finally said, as everything in him relaxed, and he smiled, opening his eyes, and he smoothed her sweaty hair back from her forehead. “Fifty feels fuckin’ fantastic. So does fifty-one, and fifty-two, and—” 

“Oh fuck,” she said suddenly, and the change in her demeanor was so sudden that he drew back, slipping out of her completely. 

“What is it?” he said. “You okay?” 

“The cake,” she said, looking up at him with genuinely worried eyes. “Did you put it in the fridge? Is it gonna melt?” 

He started laughing— he couldn’t help it, and her worry dissolved with her own giggles in response, even as she said, “What? It’s a legitimate concern,” and then they were laughing together like couple of dorks as he collapsed flat on his back, next to her. 

“Seriously, though,” she said, and she rolled into him, stroked the scruff on his face as he gazed back at her with shiny, happy eyes. “We should check.” 

“Anything you want, princess,” he said, laughing again, but they both just lay there for a few minutes, listening to the soft patter of rain on the roof, enjoying the languor and the pleasant ache of the aftermath, their bodies having grown unaccustomed to the press and stretch of loving one another, until finally he sighed, a happy sound, and then he leaned up to kiss her, once, and then he sat up completely and scooted his way to the edge of the bed.

He pulled his boxer briefs back on, smiling as he felt her crawl up behind him on the bed, wrapping her arms around him. He twisted his head, trying to look at her, but her face was hidden in his back, and he just took in a couple of breaths, luxuriating for a moment in the feeling of her squeezing him, needing him, loving him. 

She released him then, so he could stand up, and he grabbed her robe off its hook in the closet, held it out for her like a coat so that she could thread her arms into it. 

She stood up and tied the sash, and then it was his turn to wrap her up in his arms from behind, and then he kissed the side of her neck, just below her ear, and said, “Let’s go check on your cake, birthday girl,” as he patted her affectionately on the ass. He remembered the candles then, and he bent down to rummage through his jeans on the floor, pulling the little box out of the back pocket, hoping they hadn’t gotten wet in the rain. 

“You realize by ‘ _check on_ ’ I actually mean, ‘ _utterly devour before even pretending to eat a real dinner_ ,’ right?” 

“It’s your birthday, doll. You can do whatever you want.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Of course, really,” he said, a little distracted, as he checked the candles. They seemed okay. 

“Well that’s a fuckin’ relief,” she said dryly, as she playfully twirled one of the long sash-ends of the robe. “Because I was _not_ looking forward to helping you clean up all those dirty paw-prints downstairs.” 

She laughed out loud when he looked up from the candles to fake an open-mouthed expression of outrage, and then, as if on cue, they heard Phoebe clambering through the house downstairs, and then up the steps and around the corner of the landing, toenails scrabbling on the floor, still dragging the leash that they’d failed to remove, because they were horrible, selfish parents who neglected their children to screw, and then she jumped up on the bed, getting dirty paw prints and wet, dirty fur all over the sheets as well, and then she flopped down and looked at them like she was so pleased, because she was the _best doggie ever_. 

“Okay, so you’re gonna have to do all the bedding, too,” said Darcy, and she giggled as he pulled her back into an embrace. 

“Worth every second, if I get to hear you laugh like that,” he said, meaning it, and his heart swelled as she gazed back at him with nothing but affection. 

“I love you, boo,” she said, softly. “So much.” 

“Love you too, sweet-pea.” 

And then he made an exasperated face at Phoebe, making Darcy laugh again, because it was ludicrous: she knew exactly how much he loved that dog. 

“Get offa there,” he scolded, still pretending to be stern, and the dog completely ignored him, just resting her head between her paws as she looked up at him adoringly, and he finally just rolled his eyes as he bent down and unclipped the leash, folding it up in his hands, and then he headed down the stairs to check out the damage. 

Darcy sat back down on the edge of the bed and gave the dog a good pet, because she really was the best doggie ever, even if she’d made a big mess, and she’d been so _considerate_ to give her and Bucky the chance to bone before jumping up on the bed, and then Darcy had to stifle her laughter again when she heard Bucky’s anguished voice from downstairs: 

“Oh God.” 

“She didn’t get into the cake, did she?” she called out then, worried for a second. She didn’t know if Bucky had gotten her a chocolate cake, or what. 

“No,” he yelled back. “It’s, uh… it’s everything else.” 

“What did you do,” she whispered, stroking the dog’s head fondly, and then she hopped off the bed. 

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go look at the cake Daddy got for me.” Phoebe jumped down, following Darcy back down the stairs only a little sheepishly, and Darcy laughed until she cried when she saw the state of the entryway, and the hallway, and the kitchen, and she didn’t know how they could have _missed_ all of that happening, but she agreed that it’d been worth every second, especially when it ended with laughter to the point of tears, which, alongside reconnecting with Bucky, was just about the best medicine in the world— she hadn’t felt this good since May. 

And then, after a quick, twenty-minute emergency floor-cleaning, he went and made it even better by lighting up the five rainbow candles on her beautiful cake, and he sang "Happy Birthday" to her, and she kept her wish a secret as she closed her eyes, so that she wouldn’t jinx it. 

Maybe the obvious choice, on a fiftieth birthday, would have been to wish for another half-century of life. What she wound up murmuring in her mind wasn’t a request at all, but a pledge— meaning it with all her heart: that she’d take whatever she could get, as long as she got to live it with Mr. James “Bucky” Lewis, in the little house they’d made their own, out there on the far edge of town, with their dog and their cat and their rattling tank of a truck, their books and their laughter and the sparkle in his eyes, as full of love as they’d ever been, and so she thought about all that, and how grateful she was, and just before she opened her eyes to blow out the candles, she whispered it out, hoping the Universe was listening: 

“ _Thank you_.” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> No cakes were harmed in this story.


End file.
